A Devilish Slumber

by Shereen Vedam

  Her lips thinned, suggesting any well-thought-out words would fall on deaf ears.

  She had closed herself off to his explanations and excuses. Yet, that counting of days suggested his betrayal of her trust had not completely destroyed her love. As did her earlier jealousy of Miss Warwick. So, what he had not had the wherewithal to do three years ago on their parting, tonight he showed no hesitation.

  He drew her to him. Her startled green eyes grew wide and her mouth opened, no doubt to argue with him. He stole that breath in a kiss. To his shock, at his gentlest persuasion, she invited him closer. Her lips tasted of syrup and parted like a cloud until his impromptu kiss became wildly intimate plunder.

  He tugged her tighter, his hands exploring the luscious woman she had become. At their every touch point, his skin electrified while his pulse hammered in delight and sent his emotions spinning.

  Her eyes shut tight, Rose moaned in approval and shuddered within his hold.

  The soft knock might as well have been the thunder of Thor’s hammer.

  Rose whirled away, presenting her exquisite back while she readjusted her gown that looked half undone with ribbons hanging loose. Had he done that?

  Watching Rose straighten her loose clothing was delightful, but it did not help him regain his control. The knock came again, louder. He looked away and took deep breaths to restrain his runaway pulse. After a few moments, he checked on Rose to ensure she was ready.

  Her gown was in place and her mussed hair showed a semblance of order, but her bosom still heaved and her lips were ruby red and swollen. He took a breath to control his racing desire and pulled the door open. “What?” he asked sharply.

  On the other side, the maid balanced a tea tray on her hip, a wary expression on her face. Her free hand was clenched into a fist, raised and ready to deliver a more forceful pounding. “I wondered if my lady would care for refreshments.”

  “No.” He slammed the door shut.

  Rose went over to the window and flicked the curtains aside, letting in more light. He squinted against the flood of late afternoon sunlight. It was still day? It had felt more like midnight—time for bed.

  The knock came again. The maid was persistent. What an unfortunate time for this accursed place to come alive.

  “You had best let her in,” Rose said. “She is my self-appointed guardian. She will not retire as long as she has cause for concern.”

  “About me?”

  Her scathing backward glance shamed his conscience. Rose’s state of undress suggested his gentlemanly reserve had been at the breaking point. He bowed his head in contrition. With a defeated sigh, he opened the door.

  The maid rushed in, chattering about the balmy spring weather and the need for some urgent housekeeping supplies. “Would my lady like me to light the hearth?”

  Before Rose could respond, the girl listed what she had prepared. When she started on the variety of grapes, Phillip lost patience. “Leave us.”

  His order silenced her chatter. She glanced from him to her mistress but she did not depart.

  Defiant and staunchly loyal. Qualities both rare and valuable in his line of work. He held up his right hand and promised, “I will not harm her.”

  “Hannah, please leave us,” Rose said. “As Sir Phillip has said, he will behave.”

  They waited until the reluctant girl left.

  “I am glad you trust me that much,” Phillip said.

  “Trust is immaterial. You could not hurt me any more than you already have.”

  He strolled closer and touched her hair, fine and straight, but without a curl in sight. “I never meant to hurt you, Rose. I only ever wished to protect you.”

  “If the past is a barometer, then I had best beware your brand of protection.”

  He slowly turned her to face him, so she would not misread his intention. “Can you not have a little faith in me, Rose?”

  Her green gaze was steeped in doubt and sorrow. “Is that why you kissed me? Do you believe I have an unbreakable heart that can be assaulted at will with no repercussions? Or do you think I have none left to break?”

  He stepped back. She spoke of broken hearts as if she were the sole possessor of such things. His, too, had been shattered when she turned him away because he chose duty to country over duty to her. Now that he was back, he wanted her to know that he had never stopped loving her. That was why he had kissed her.

  Once, he had basked in her affections. It had been a heady experience. Kissing her had brought back that memory full-fold. He would be damned if he would give it up again.

  “Why do you smile?” Suspicion layered her tone.

  He pulled out his watch and flicked open the lid. “I have an appointment at four.” His gaze swept over her lovely flushed face. It was good to see color back on her pale cheeks. She almost looked like her old lively self. He bowed and lightly saluted the back of her hand. Her fingers trembled in his grasp. Where his words had failed, his kiss had overcome her defenses, and now he knew how to win this war. “’Til tomorrow, fair Rose.”

  ROSE WATCHED him depart, surprised and a little piqued. The way he had embraced her made her think that he might still want her, if only in body. But then he left for another appointment, as if nothing of import had occurred. Whereas she felt as if he had just kissed her awake.

  For so many nights, she had dreamed of having him kiss her like that. Yet, her dreams had been insipid compared the real thing. To her shame, she had not wanted him to release her . . . ever.

  Rose hugged her frustrated body. Every part of her still tingled and shivered. She clenched her fingers, shaking with disappointment at his swift goodbye. No man should have such power over a woman. Especially if the desire was not reciprocated.

  She stared at her back garden with blind eyes, her throat thick with tears, and remembered the vision in Mrs. Weatheringham’s looking glass. It had been three years, and she no longer possessed the vivacity and beauty of her youth. Did he no longer desire her?

  His cavalier parting words echoed. Have an appointment. An appointment. Appointment. Then it struck her.

  At Helen’s apartment, he had said, Meet me at the Boar and Cross on Heron Street on the morrow at four sharp.

  Dear heavens, his appointment was with Ben Turner. With her!

  The timepiece on the mantel, the only one in the house that still ticked, showed quarter past three. She ran out of the room, shouting for Hannah.

  The girl caught up to her half way up the stairs. “My lady, whatever is the matter?”

  Rose whirled and grabbed her. “Hannah, you are dismissed for the day.”

  The maid’s mouth took on its customary stubborn cast. “I have not finished my work.”

  “Finish it tomorrow.” Rose nudged her down the stairs. “That is an order.”

  “You will not do something foolish while I am gone?”

  Rose’s lips twitched, wanting to smile. Odd, she had not felt the urge to smile in years. “Not without checking with you first.”

  With much muttering, Hannah retreated to collect her belongings from the kitchen.

  Rose waited impatiently until the outer servant’s door slammed closed, echoing in the quiet house. Then she lifted her skirts and raced up to her father’s room where she had hidden his clothes under the bed. It was closer than the attic, and a room Hannah was unlikely to enter.

  A half hour later, in the guise of Ben Turner, Rose alighted from a hackney by The Boar and Cross. Its wooden sign was gabled and depicted a fierce lord with a raised sword, the handle shaped like a cross, bearing down on a boar. The image seemed appropriate for this rowdy street where people reeked of ale and argued with clenched fists. A group of street urchins raced toward her and she barely stepped aside in time.

  A donkey laden with produce lumbered along the narrow
street while a hawker called out, “White turnips and fine carrots, ho! Who will buy me choice carrots and young turnips? White turnips and fine carrots, ho!”

  A strange place for a gentleman of the ton to haunt. But then, Phillip was not just any gentleman. He was a spy.

  She entered the tavern and several gazes swung her way. Apparently unimpressed by her baggy clothes, they soon lost interest. One man, slumped in his seat, appearing jug bitten, a term Hannah used to describe her father when he was drunk. Surely finding Phillip in this mob should not be so difficult. She searched for a smartly dressed fair-haired gentleman.

  A man in a faded brown coat sat alone in a far corner. Her gaze swung past him and then swiftly returned as recognition set in. That was Phillip! Her pulse did a startled tha-thump.

  He gestured for her to approach.

  Rose hurried over and sat across from him.

  A barmaid came by and asked her pleasure.

  About to say, “sherry,” she hesitated. Would that be the type of drink a man would order in a tavern? She looked at Phillip’s glass. Empty.

  “Another crank,” Phillip said. “And one for my friend.”

  The barmaid nodded, her gaze lingering on Rose. A tilt of her head indicated the stairs. “Mayhap the young gentleman would like some company? I can spare a few minutes. I would be willin’ to go as low as six-pence for such a handsome lad.”

  At Phillip’s devilish smile, Rose surmised what the server offered and it was definitely not crank. She shook her head, her gaze trained on the table.

  The maid gave a dissatisfied humph, and left.

  Was this how Phillip spent his spare moments? Had he accepted offers from barmaids and other loose women? She doubted he had wasted as many nights dreaming about her as she had of him.

  “Well met, Benjamin Turner,” Phillip said. “I like a gentleman who knows the importance of punctuality.”

  “I said I would be here, sir, and here I am.” She vibrated her vocal cords to assume a masculine tone.

  “Did you find anything else at Mrs. Beaumont’s?”

  She shook her head. After Phillip left, she had stuffed things carelessly into trunks and paid for Helen’s effects to be shipped to Rose’s residence so she could do a more thorough search later. That brought to mind the letters Phillip had taken. “Did you speak with Mrs. Kinsdale?”

  “I called on her this morning after breakfast. Although most distressed to hear of her friend’s death, the lady shared little of value. They had met while Mrs. Kinsdale traveled through Germany.”

  That made sense. Helen had planned to discuss with Rose a book called, The Italian by Mrs. Radcliffe, which Helen said described the Rhine River region well. Her travels might have sparked that choice and her friendship with this Mrs. Kinsdale. Only Helen no longer cared about literature, friendships, or anything else. She frowned.

  “You seem sad,” Phillip said. “Is something the matter?”

  “Nothing, sir.” Phillip appeared none the worse for their recent embrace. How could he make love to her one moment and forget her, the next? “When we last spoke, you intended to visit Lady Roselyn Ravenstock. How did that fare?”

  “Not well. The lady insists on keeping secrets. She refused to admit that she had received an invitation from Mrs. Beaumont on the night of the murder.”

  “Perhaps she did not.”

  “Of course she did. We saw the remnants of that invitation in the wastebasket.”

  “It is possible that Mrs. Beaumont never sent such a note. Lady Roselyn may not be involved in this at all.”

  “Hmm.”

  The barmaid returned with their drinks.

  Rose took a mouthful and choked on the bitter taste, spurting some over the table. Embarrassed, she swallowed what remained in her mouth in one big gulp and immediately coughed again. Once recovered, she said, “Sorry, sir.”

  “I take it you have never had gin and water?” Phillip wore an unpitying grin. “You will get used to the taste soon. Take small sips and do not become castaway. We have work to do.”

  “What work?” She sipped and managed to keep the fiery liquid down.

  “You do wish to help with the investigation?”

  Her throat and insides warmed nicely and she had another taste. She rather liked this drink.

  With a raised eyebrow, he seemed to be awaiting an answer. What had they been talking about? “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Um, what was the question?”

  He sighed. “Do you still wish to assist me with the investigation?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I must know who killed Mrs. Beaumont.” She held up her glass and searched for the barmaid.

  Phillip brought her hand down until the glass thunked against the scarred wooden table. “One is sufficient for a first try.” He waved away the server. “I suggest we start by checking the docks where Mrs. Beaumont’s body was discovered.”

  Rose licked the last drop of her drink. Her head felt lightened. Could excess alcohol make her face revert back to normal? Not only would Phillip be surprised, but the tavern’s patrons would wonder why a man suddenly looked like a woman. She pushed away her glass.

  “Perhaps you have had too much.” Phillip eyed her empty glass now resting at the very edge of the table.

  She wanted to lean forward and kiss his smirk.

  “Some fresh air might do you good.” He stood.

  Rose tried to stand and the room swayed. She grabbed hold of the table and her glass tipped over.

  Phillip caught it and placed it back on the table. His laughter was clear now. “Come along, young Ben.”

  Once outside, she leaned against the wall and waited for the world to right itself while he attempted to hail a hackney. Not finding a cab, he returned and suggested they walk the short distance.

  She agreed. “If only the street would stop swaying.”

  “That might have more to do with your wavering steps.”

  She glared at him but did not argue when he wrapped a supporting arm around her shoulders.

  They reached the shoreline by the Thames River where the salty air was laden with odors of fish and rotting timber. Her stomach began to turn in unpleasant ways, adding discomfort to her already nauseous state. They continued on, turning onto a lane called Wapping New Stairs. This was where Helen’s body was found! If she had been lightheaded before, the sea air stench and the reminder that Helen had died here made her double up as her lunch threatened to erupt. She clutched her side and leaning over the far side of a barrel, she heaved, praying for the stitch in her side to subside.

  “Not a seafaring youth, I see,” Phillip said. “Can you hold your own while I speak to those lads by the docks?”

  She grunted her affirmative.

  With another soft chuckle, he sauntered off.

  Rose slithered to the ground, resting her back against the barrel, and lowered her spinning head between her legs, an action that Hannah had said helped her papa when in this state. After a while, she found she could breathe without choking on each breath.

  Up the road, Phillip spoke to a couple of sailors who shook their heads. He walked toward the pier where a group of men were crouched, playing some dice game. They were probably from that merchant ship anchored far off shore. She squinted to read the name. Lady Tourville.

  Her attention wandered back up the road from where they had come, and she spotted a figure emerge from the shadow of a building. Was that Trenton? It was! He tipped his hat to her.

  How could he recognize her? She touched her face and gasped. Her features had slipped back to normal. Even her chest was stretching out of her father’s shirt and coat. Quickly she shifted to Ben’s manly features and form, her skin tingling with the effort. It was harder to do without a looking glass to verify the result.
She hoped she had not made any fatal errors. At least her chest was flat again. Thank heavens only Trenton saw her and not Phillip.

  Despite Trenton helping her regain her disguise, she staggered upright to tell him that she did not want a watchdog, something she should have been explicit about before leaving Mrs. Weatheringham’s place. But Trenton was gone. With a frustrated sigh, she approached Phillip. Everything was becoming so complicated.

  The sailors glanced her way, but their attention quickly returned to Phillip. He acknowledged her, and then went on to ask if any of the men had seen anything unusual on Wednesday night. A lone woman, perhaps near the warehouses.

  “See here, guv,” a burly sailor said, “if a lovely laidy had cum ’ere, we would know of it, would we not, lads?”

  His companions whistled in heartfelt agreement.

  “Only the boys’ wives ever makes the trip to these docks,” one man said, “and they ain’t nothin’ to look at, more’s the pity.”

  “That be not ’xactly true, Alfie.” A slender man rolled a die. With a sigh, he watched as the prize money was gathered by another man. His glance speared Phillip. “You ain’t one of ‘em River Police, are ya? ’Cause, I don’t talk to ’em.”

  Phillip assured the man he did not belong to them.

  “All right then. Name’s Tatters. Point of fact, I saw not one, but two women here two nights ago. I was on me way home. They were goin’ into there.” He pointed to a nearby warehouse.

  “That be your wishful thinkin’, mate,” his friend said and laughed rudely.

  “Did you see their features?” Phillip squatted. The clinking of coins suggested money exchanged hands.

  To the envy of his companions, Tatters slipped his bounty into his pocket. “I went to speak to ’em and since I held up me lantern, I saw ’em clear enough. One was older with dark ’air. The other, she was a looker. About that boy’s height. Fair hair, down to here.” He indicated his shoulder. “Sea-green eyes, not a sight I would soon forget. The other one called her ‘Roselyn.’”

  Rose sucked in her breath. The man’s description fit her exactly, to the name.